Cursed-epub (2 page)

“Hello, Sean,” Kell said in a raspy voice. “There had better be a good reason you're calling me only…fifteen minutes after I've finally gotten to bed.”

“I'm sorry, but I got a little love note from Maponus.”

A light clicking on and sheets rustling came over the phone line. “What does Maponus want?” Kell asked, sounding a lot more awake now.

Leaning back into his dark leather chair, Sean looked out the window to watch the dawn breaking over the Celtic Sea. It was a beautiful sight, the meeting of land and water, but he barely saw it. Instead, his sleep-deprived mind was trying to figure out Maponus’ message. He pushed himself out of the comfortable chair and walked over to the wide bay window, gazing into the dawn tinting the dark sky with purple and gray light.

Sean's gaze followed the roll of the ocean beyond his cottage. “Well, besides bringing over a crew of fifteen musicians and dancers, coordinating with twenty-four samba clubs, doing a charity DJ event, trying to make the locals understand our heavily accented English—”

“Don't forget romancing a few of those delicious Brazilian lasses.” He chuckled then made a harsh grunt. In the background, Sean could hear Mary, Kell's wife, giving him an earful of what would happen to him if he so much as bumped into one of those women.

“Tell Mary I'll keep you out of trouble.” Sean laughed. “So, in addition to all that, I also have to find a woman who is 'the first flower of spring' and save her from some Brazilian destruction god who likes to whip young men until the blood flows.”

“First flower of spring. Sounds like Maponus' usual vague description. Doesn't seem too bad, except for the demon with a whip part.” Kell sighed tiredly. “Well, my friend, I suggest you get some sleep. Regardless of what our god has in store for you, we still have a twelve-hour flight from Dublin to Rio this afternoon.”

“I know, I know. Thank you, Kell. Give Mary a kiss for me.”

Sean tossed the phone onto his computer chair then strode over to the floor-to-ceiling dark walnut shelves that dominated the north wall. It was filled with all kinds of books, from dog-eared paperbacks to enormous leather-bound volumes. Reaching up, he pulled down a four-foot black metal case from the top shelf with a soft grunt. After setting it down on a small table next to his reading chair, he briefly ran his fingertips over the scrollwork on the case, memories of wielding this sword countless times spilling through his head in a riot of blood and screams. Whistling a complicated tune, he removed the protection spell from around the case and flipped it open.

Inside, a long and beautifully crafted sword shone on its bed of dark green velvet. A simple silver ring pommel adorned the blade, and the guard was a sinuous curve of gleaming metal. The sword itself was long and razor-sharp, with runes and music notes etched into its length. It was a work of art by one of the greatest bladesmiths that Ireland had ever produced, handed down through six generations of Maponus’ Chosen and, by some twist of fate, ending up in his care.

Sean stood there for a long time, memories of haphazardly swinging this sword as a green youth playing out in his mind. How eager he had been when the Celtic god of Music had picked him as his Chosen Hand on Earth. Maponus had gifted Sean with the ability to enhance his music into magic. Sean could bring joy to any heart with a simple melody or heal a wounded body and spirit with a song. He could also break bones, rend flesh, and destroy souls with his music, but he preferred to use it for positive actions.

What he wasn't prepared for were the responsibilities that came with such power. At first, all he’d wanted to do was become a famous musician, have an endless supply of willing women, and travel the world using his god's gift. Instead, he’d found himself drawn into dangerous battles with the Forces of Destruction and protecting the innocent. Oh, the fame and women had come, and the world travel, but his greatest satisfaction came from his secret work as a chosen warrior of the gods of Creation.

Stripping off his shirt, he ran his hands over the large and intricate tattoo covering his muscled back, a series of Celtic knots that looked, at first, like a random design. Magic tingled against his palms as he rubbed a lump tightening up his left shoulder and the tense muscle slowly eased beneath his fingertips. Unlike regular tattoos, the intricate design on his back was slightly raised so it felt more like a carving etched into his skin than simply ink beneath the surface. At first the pattern appeared to be nothing more than a massive, intricate series of Celtic knots and magical symbols. It was only after following the path of the twisting lines, and looking at the bigger picture, that it became apparent the design was a series of music notes. The markings had appeared after he completed the full transition from mortal to Chosen, a warning to his enemies that he was under the protection of a powerful god.

Sean took the sword out of its bed of green velvet and held it before him, turning the blade in the dim morning light. Well cared for, the fine edge could cut through metal and bone like warm butter. Every time he put the sword back into its case and on the shelf, he hoped that maybe that would be the last time he would need to wield it, that just maybe he’d earned the right to a moment of peace in his life, a time when he wouldn’t be responsible for saving the world and could instead focus on finding a woman strong enough to survive being the beloved of a Chosen. He was so tired of being alone.

Carmella soaked her sore fingers in a mixing bowl filled with iced water. It would have been nice if she could have gone to the voodoo priestess down the street for a healing balm, but she barely had enough money to pay this month’s rent. Oh, she could have gone to a black magic practitioner who would have charged her less money, but demanded a piece of her soul instead. So she stuck to the old remedy of trying to relieve the pain in her hands with an ice bath rather than selling her soul because of a few blisters.

She’d spent all morning, and most of the afternoon, sewing tiny pieces of glittering white beads onto the bikini top of a Carnival costume. Dianta, the bitchy, blonde girlfriend of Carmella’s boss, was the
Rainha da Bateria
of the Ramirez Samba School this year. Dianta’s role as the Drum Queen was to march at the front of the samba school drum section during Rio de Janeiro's Carnival parade and showcase herself on behalf of the school. No matter how much Carmella detested the viper-tongued woman, she couldn’t bring herself to screw up the costume Dianta would be wearing so that it would have a wardrobe malfunction. She couldn’t sabotage Dianta without hurting the school her father had built from the ground up.

Dianta wanted the best costume money could buy, and she wanted Carmella to make it for her because the bitch knew that Carmella couldn’t stand her, and she reveled in making Carmella do menial tasks for her amusement.

My father never would have picked her as queen
.

She flexed her fingers in the bowl of melting ice and tried to fight back the tears that threatened anytime she thought about her dad. Last year, her father, Gustavo Ramirez, had died in a car accident on his way home after visiting her mother in the hospital. He’d left the samba school to his financial partner, Enrique, who died of food poisoning a few weeks later. The school then passed on to Enrique's son, Miguel, boyfriend to Dianta, minor drug lord, and just all around
desgraçado
.

Fortunately Carmella and her mother kept control of the family estate outside of the city. She was supposed to train under Enrique after she’d graduated college and become part owner of the school someday. Too bad his son had refused to acknowledge this unwritten part of the will. Instead, he acted as if he was doing her a great favor by letting her work at the school as basically his slave. She did all the long, tedious, bullshit jobs and the sewing while he sat on his ass and did coke.

Her father had tried to provide for them after his death, but in a cruel twist of fate, her mother had gotten gravely ill after her father’s passing. The life insurance money and inheritance had gone to pay the medical bills from her mother's breast cancer treatments—wiping out pretty much everything they had. Thankfully her mother had been declared cancer free after her double mastectomy, but by then they’d barely had enough money to get by. In an effort to keep her family home, Carmella had to abandon her dreams of an education with only three semesters to go. She’d searched for weeks for a decent job and had been rejected at every turn. When Miguel had offered her a job she’d had no choice and came to work for him as basically an indentured servant.

Sometimes it seemed as though she was cursed with bad luck.

She removed her hands from the ice water and examined the reddened tips of her fingers before drying them on a faded orange towel. Her feet ached too, and she couldn't figure out why. They felt as if she had been dancing for hours in her heels, but she hadn't danced more than two or three times since her father's death. As soon as she started to dance in her father’s studio, she’d become overwhelmed with sorrow at the thought that she’d never look up to see him in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors again, so incredibly handsome with her mother in his arms. She’d had the blessing of growing up with parents who truly, deeply loved each other, but it made her own lonely existence hurt all the more.

Rubbing the back of her neck, Carmella walked to the small window over the sink and looked through its bars. The fourth-story apartment peered out over a crowded city block in one of the nicer sections of the ghetto of Rio…if there was such a thing. Clothes hung to dry from lines strewn between the dilapidated apartments, and the sun set over the distant glitter of Rio's skyscrapers.

She lived in an overcrowded section of the city, on the west side of town. It was the only place she could afford and still have enough money to send some home to her mother. Listening to the sounds of the streets coming to life as the sun set, Carmella hummed a tune and twisted her thick, dark hair into a bun. The soft light almost made the view pretty, if one ignored the drug dealers and prostitutes setting up shop across the street. In the far distance, sparkling gold bursts of the nightly fireworks shows put on by alchemists employed by the tourist board began to dot the sky over the coast.

Tiny, but clean, the entire apartment was the size of her bedroom back home. It contained a small kitchen, a bathroom with barely enough room to turn around in, and a living room that doubled as a bedroom. But it was roach-free, and the landlady kept the drug addicts out, so it was good enough for Carmella. Small and safe was better than big and scary, even if she did feel like a scared little rabbit hiding in her apartment at night.

Soon the smell of roasting peppers filled the air as she made dinner. It was lonely eating by herself, but she was embarrassed to invite her old friends to her crappy apartment. The home she’d grown up in was a beautiful ranch house built by her great-great-grandfather. While most of the land had been sold off, they still owned twenty acres that spread out around the dwelling. No matter how much she hated her job, no matter how much she just wanted to quit and run home to her mom, she had no other choice. It was either work for Miguel or lose her house. Her mother still wasn’t fully recovered after her long illness and Carmella was pretty sure the shock of losing their ranch would kill her.

Chewing slowly, she tried to make the rice with beans and peppers last. As she ate, her gaze turned to the carved obsidian statue of the Egyptian god, Bes. The image of the squat and bearded dwarf sat on a shelf against the wall, in between pictures of her family and her collection of well-read books. Generations of hands had given the stone a bright, glossy shine. The statue was the last thing her mother had given her before she left home. She thought about the last time she’d seen her mother as she ate her dinner…

“Take it with you. I'm sorry I can't give you more,” her mother said with tears in her beautiful dark eyes. Guilt hung in a visible mantle on her frail shoulders, and Carmella ached at the thought of leaving her. “I brought him from Egypt with me when I moved to Brazil as a teenager. He has watched over our family for generations, back to the time of the pharaohs.”

Carmella sighed and took the heavy statue of a squat man sticking his tongue out. When she was a little girl she would often amuse herself by sticking her tongue back out at him and making silly faces. That is until the day she swore the statue winked at her when she did it.

“Mama, you know I don't believe in your gods.”

Carmella moved the statue to her other arm, the heavy weight pulling at her shoulders. Her attention was caught by a gleam of light off the curve of the statue, drawing her eyes to how much work had gone into making it, and the skill needed to carve such a beautiful piece of art.  The stone was smooth like glass beneath her fingers as she traced the curve of a curl in his beard. When she’d glanced up, she could easily read her mother’s wish that she take it with her.

“While I’m honored that you’re giving me such a valuable piece of my past, I’m not leaving him any tributes. I don’t believe in all that nonsense, and I certainly won’t be making him honey and milk for breakfast each day. He’s not real.”

Her mother looked down at the statue and smiled. “Believe what you will, my stubborn daughter. Bes will watch over you and guard you for me. He's the war god of women and children, protecting them from harm and evil.” Ignoring Carmella rolling her eyes, she continued in the same patient voice she used for teaching at the samba school. “He loves dancing, drinking, and sensual pleasures. Please, dance for his glory. Leave the other two until you are married.”

She took Carmella's hand in her own and gave her a heartbreaking smile. “I fear I can no longer move like I used to. When I was a young girl I celebrated Bes's glory and asked for his blessings by dancing with my mother. Just like we used to dance together when you were a little girl.”

Looking down at their joined hands, Carmella marveled at how similar they were. Her skin held more of a golden hue than her mother's dark tan, but the graceful shape of their bone structure was the same. She was a lighter reflection of her mother's dark beauty. The worry in her mother’s eyes made her sigh.